


The Compatibility Theory

by pandarave12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, John Plays Rugby, John is also a bit of a dick here but that's okay, M/M, Older John, Past Drug Use, Romance, Sherlock is a dork here, Sherlock is also a sad gay baby, Slow Burn, Unilock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're supposed to keep freshmen together but someone didn't get the memo. 21-year-old John and his friends are forced to share a house with eighteen-year-old, fresh out of rehab Sherlock whose father happens to be John's professor. No one likes it at all. John's got a goal to keep his relationship with his best friend/girlfriend strong and  keep his grades up but it's a bit difficult when he's trying to keep the freshman out of trouble.</p><p>Sherlock hates uni. He hates the parties, the people, and mostly his rugby-playing housemates, but there's nothing much he can do about it. He made a promise to his brother (The Overly-Friendly One, not the Fat One). Stupid of him, really, to make a promise that's impossible to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a lot of things that happened in real life. 
> 
> Downplayed my tendency to ramble in the things I write to make it feel more YA. Also, I'm Asian, and English isn't my first language so yeah...I make mistakes.

There was a skull in the room, along with John’s Biology professor and three boys. “Um,” he said, cringing when four pairs of eyes looked his way. “This is my room.”

 

Professor Holmes smiled at him. It was a nice smile, the kind of smile that said ‘I know I’m your professor and smarter and older than you, but I’m also a fun guy’. In a classroom, seeing that smile calmed John down. It meant no exams and that his Santa-like teacher would probably just show them a chemistry trick. But seeing it now was just weird. Maybe he was dreaming, he thought. Maybe it was that kind of dream where he went to school with just his pants on.

 

He looked down. Nope. Not that kind of dream.

 

“I’m afraid Michael’s failed to inform you that you have a new housemate,” Professor Holmes said. “Your quarters have been moved to the upper floor. Hans graduated last year, I think?”

 

“Uh yeah.” Hans was older and had always gotten the larger room while Mike, John, and Neil crammed their things in the second floor’s smaller rooms. It _wasn’t_ a bad arrangement. It just didn’t explain why his friends never told him. Nor did it explain why his Biology professor was here, the same Biology professor who’d told John to maybe lessen the drinking and gambling because they weren’t helping his grades. John still couldn’t directly look him in the eye after that talk.

 

There was a bit of silence and John’s arms were beginning to ache from the box he was holding when one of the boys let out a dry cough that had John wincing in sympathy. “Sorry,” he said with an apologetic smile in John’s direction. “Room’s a bit dusty.”

 

He was tall and slender and paper-white and had a face that looked like someone had thrown an atomic bomb full of freckles on it. His hair was the same auburn as the guy beside him, and when he smiled at John, it was like looking at his professor, thirty years younger. “Oh,” John said. The room was full of baby Siger Holmeses. One was a freckly version, another was a stouter version, and the last had black hair and eyes so pale it was like locking eyes with a snake.

 

“My youngest Sherlock,” Professor Holmes said. He gestured to the dark-haired boy. “It’s his first year here. I trust that you’ll help him settle.”

 

It wasn’t a question and when John accidentally looked at one of the older brothers, he saw the subtle ‘or else’ in the sentence. The dark-haired boy scowled but said nothing. “Um, yeah, sure, I’ll just…” He gestured at the box in his hands.

 

“Do you need help?” Freckles took the box before John could say anything. “It’s this way right? Wow, those stairs are rather narrow. And dark. They should put a light there.”

 

John blinked.

 

He said goodbye then followed Freckles up the stairs. “John? John Watson?” Freckles looked like he was rolling John’s name in his mouth, testing how it sounded in his voice. It was deep, his voice. It reminded John too much of Biology class so he just nodded. “I’m Sherrinford.”

 

“That’s an odd name.”

 

“My father’s name is _Siger_ , John.” He was already taking John’s things out of the box, and John’s eyes widened when he saw that Sherrinford was putting them in all the right places. “It goes back. I was named after my grandfather, Mycroft was named after an uncle, and don’t tell Sherlock but he was named after an aunt.”

 

“Is that a joke?”

 

“Yes. It means ‘bright hair’. His hair isn’t bright.” He paused to look at John as if waiting for him to confirm that it wasn’t.

 

“It isn’t.”

 

“Thought he’d be born with red hair but Sherlock’s full of surprises—Hey! This is a nice book. Have you read Catch-22 yet?”

 

It was like talking to a hurricane, John decided as Sherrinford moved his things and talked. John sat on his bed and waited for him to stop. He wouldn’t. He talked about all sorts of things but the one-sided conversation kept coming back to Sherlock. Sherlock this, Sherlock that. Sherrinford looked like he was thirty and Sherlock looked to be somewhere between twelve and eighteen, but the way Sherrinford talked about him was like Sherlock was his own kid. It was almost endearing. 

 

Almost.

 

There was a knock on the door and the stockier version of John’s Biology professor came in. Mycroft, the one who’d glared at John threateningly. “Father wants us to eat before we leave. Convince Sherlock to come with us.” He glanced at John then back to his brother again. “You’re bothering him.”

 

“He really isn’t,” John said but it was like neither of them heard him. Sherrinford set down a framed picture of John and his sister then straightened. He flashed another one of his happy-go-lucky smiles at John. “Well, I’m off,” he said. “Be nice to my baby brother.”

 

“And be patient with him,” Mycroft muttered. “Try not punch him on the first day.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You forgot?”

 

Mike shrugged. He and Neil had just come in, dripping water everywhere they went. It was raining outside and John couldn’t help but think of stick-thin Sherlock walking out there. Nonsense, John thought. He had his family with him.

 

“I only just remembered that Sherlock was moving in with us,” Mike explained. “He’s okay. A bit strange and a bit of a dick but he won’t bite. My dad’s his brother’s physician. The brother’s got really bad asthma. Sherlock comes with him sometimes.”

 

The brother. Sherrinford most likely, John thought, remembering the way Sherrinford had coughed and wheezed while he arranged John’s things. “Sherrinford asked me help keep an eye on him. Something to do with rehab.”

 

“Rehab?”

 

“He got in a stint with drugs.” Mike said it casually. It happened. It was uni after all. People had sex, people did drugs, and every now and then, someone would overdose and get shipped to the nearby hospital where the med students practiced. Maybe it happened in boarding school as well. The glimpse he’d gotten of Sherlock Holmes had given John the idea that he was one of those posh kids who’d gone to a very posh boarding school. Maybe somewhere outside the country, possibly in Switzerland. Professor Holmes was loaded, after all.

 

“Hey, if the kid’s pretty, I’m okay with it.” Neil laughed when Mike threw a pillow at him.

 

“You’re a slut, Neil. You beat Three Continents over here.”

 

“Of course I can beat him. Johnny here has a girlfriend now.”

 

“He’s a skinny brunette who looks about twelve,” John said. “You like tan, overly-muscled guys who look like they should be in Baywatch.”

 

“True,” Neil said. John was glad Sherlock wasn’t a Baywatch candidate. It would make things awkward. Like Neil-and-Hans awkward. John couldn’t remember all the details, or maybe Neil never did tell them. He was just glad Hans had already graduated because John doubted he could stand another day with Neil and Hans shouting at each other.

 

Neil liked to flirt. A lot. Too much. The first time John met him, he’d flirted incessantly while John had just stood there and wondered when he could say that he didn’t swing that way. “Oh, I know you don’t,” Neil said once John was able to tell him. “I just wanted to get under your skin.” And then he’d grabbed John by the shoulders and steered him to where the rest of the rugby team were.

 

“Coffee, John?” Mike asked. John nodded absent-mindedly. He fished his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Mary. ‘Got a new housemate. My professor’s kid. Weird, huh?’

 

She didn’t reply. Mary didn’t like using phones much. She preferred talking in person. “We’re in uni, that’s impossible!” John said and Mary had just sighed and told him, “We go to the same university, John.”

 

But still.

 

Mary was his best friend first. They grew up in the same town, went to the same secondary school together, and Mary had been the one to help him talk Harry into talking to a counsellor about her growing alcoholism. They got drunk, hooked up, and now John had a girlfriend because he couldn’t treat Mary like some random girl. She was his best friend, after all.

 

Mike and Neil found it weird. To be honest, John found it a bit weird as well and Mary did, too. But it wasn’t like they had a bad relationship. They were just adjusting, working around it. His mother had predicted that he’d get married to Mary and maybe she was right. John could see himself as Mary’s husband.

 

Well, sort of.

 

“You have to be nice to him all the time,” Neil said as he dumped himself on the sofa. He propped his feet on a box with the word FRAGILE written on one side in black marker. “Is Holmes still going to teach you?”

 

“Biochemistry,” John muttered. Siger Holmes was brilliant if last year’s class was anything to go by, but he wasn’t the kind of person John would willingly do favours for. It was the ‘too brilliant’ part. Intelligence was intimidating. “I don’t want us to have to babysit.”

 

“Sherlock’s pretty independent,” Mike said. “Just keep him out of cocaine hot spots for a month and you’ll be fine.”

 

“That counts as babysitting.”

 

Mike shrugged.

 

John shrugged back. Great, he thought. His first day of One Year of No Alcoholic Family Members and he had to spend it looking after some kid.

 

“Aw come on, John. He’s not bad.” Mike smiled in what John thought was an attempt at a reassuring grin. Only it didn’t have much effect. Probably because Mike didn’t believe himself. “The worst thing he can do is leave some dirty dishes in the sink.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t like mushrooms. You know I don’t like mushrooms.”

 

“Stop acting like a brat,” Mycroft snapped at the same time Sherrinford offered to eat them. Well, offered was the wrong word. Sherrinford was already piling mushroom after mushroom on his own plate. He ate a lot. It was a Sherrinford thing.

 

They didn’t eat with their father. Siger had bid them goodbye outside the restaurant which was fine by Sherlock. It was bad enough that they were making him attend a university where his father worked. They shouldn’t have to force him to constantly be in his father’s presence.

 

It was a nice restaurant, expensive enough so that not a lot of uni students were here, but not so much that there weren’t any because it was still in campus. There were mostly professors, some of whom recognized Sherrinford and Mycroft. A professor in Legal Management, a professor in Biology, another one who taught Greek. His brothers talked to a lot of people.

 

Sherlock didn’t.

 

Sherlock’s connections were mostly homeless people who helped him with cases, DI Lestrade from New Scotland Yard, and drug dealers. But Mycroft had made sure to get rid of that last one. Sherlock scratched at the inside of his arm. It was something he did a lot. He accidentally scratched at a nicotine patch.

 

“Do you have three there?” Mycroft glared at him and before Sherlock could protest, he’d already ripped off two. “You’ll poison yourself.”

 

“That can be the highlight of my day,” Sherlock countered.

 

“Don’t be difficult, Sherlock,” Sherrinford sighed.

 

Sherlock didn’t argue. He wanted to yell, make a scene, possibly throw his plate at Mycroft’s face, but he couldn’t. Not after what happened.

 

_You’ll kill me._

 

Sherlock didn’t want that.

 

It was his fault. The drugs, nearly overdosing, his first and last attempt to escape rehab. Sherrinford had gotten stressed because of him. He’d nearly died because of Sherlock. Sherlock could still remember seeing his brother’s face slowly turn blue from asphyxiation, the way he’d scratched at his throat uselessly, and stupid Sherlock had just stood there, frozen, until Mycroft ran inside and found them.

 

Sherlock looked at his brother’s neck.

 

They were still there.

 

In the hospital, when Sherrinford had woken up, that was what he said. _You’ll kill me. Please stop._

 

He wasn’t a murderer, no matter what Sally Donovan said. So he did his best to stop.

 

“You can get your own place next year,” Mycroft told him. He fixed his eyes on Sherlock. There was a bit of doubt in his voice as if he doubted Sherlock would even make it through the year. Sherlock didn’t bother arguing with him. He probably wouldn’t.

 

“You can stay with Father,” Sherrinford teased.

 

“I’m already majoring in Chemistry,” Sherlock muttered. “I’ll see him often enough.”

 

“He won’t be your professor, Sherls. He’s not that cruel. I mean, would you rather stay with Mummy?”

 

Sherlock shuddered at the idea. Their mother taught Mathematics in Oxford. Sherrinford had gone there and he’d come home, groaning about how Mummy wouldn’t leave him alone. She was just like Sherlock—highly-intelligent, intimidating when they wanted to be, and absolutely tactless. “You don’t want to go there, trust me,” Sherrinford said, laughing. “Mummy will keep calling you about your eating habits.”

 

“I like John,” Sherrinford said once he’d calmed down enough to resume talking. Sherrinford tended to do that, which was laugh at something then bring a new topic to the conversation. Sherlock didn’t know how he could do that. Small talk was neither his nor Mycroft’s strong point. “John is nice.”

 

“You like everyone,” Mycroft pointed out.

 

“True. I’m the Nice Holmes.”

 

“The Overly-Friendly One.”

 

“The Annoying Overly-Attached One.”

 

Sherrinford just smiled.

 

“Which makes Mycroft the Fat One,” Sherlock said. Because it needed to be said. Daily.

 

“Very mature, Sherlock.”

 

It almost felt normal, like it was the holidays and Sherlock had just come from boarding school while Sherrinford and Mycroft had come from whatever country they’d been shipped off to. But it wasn’t normal because his brothers would leave and he would be stuck here, in a strange new place with strange people. Normal people. But strange to him because Sherlock wasn’t. Normal, that was.

 

It had started to rain while they were in the restaurant and when the three of them went outside, it was already pouring hard. Sherlock saw kids either running for shelter or walking through the rain at a normal pace. "Looks like fun," Sherrinford remarked as he looked at a couple walking in the field, hand-in-hand.

 

"Do you want to catch pneumonia again?" Mycroft snorted. 

 

"Well...it looks fun enough to risk it." He grinned at Sherlock who merely glared at him. "That was one time."

 

"You make nearly dying sound like a hobby."

 

"It's a Holmes thing, isn't it?"

 

Anthea was there which prevented Sherrinford from doing anything idiotic. Mycroft’s shiny new assistant, sitting inside a shiny new car. She greeted them cordially as they climbed in. Sherlock looked out the window. People were staring at the car, practically drooling at the sight of it. Pathetic.

 

“Be good, alright?” Sherrinford had one arm around his shoulders. Sherlock hated it when he did that but he didn’t pull away. His brother smelled of aftershave and Italian dressing and a hint of perfume. A new girlfriend maybe. It was hard to keep track of Sherrinford's girlfriends. He changed partners as fast as he changed clothes. “If anything goes wrong, call me.”

 

“When have I ever been good?”

 

“You can start now,” Sherrinford said playfully. “You can start by taking care of yourself.”

 

It meant no drugs. It meant no smoking. Sherlock scratched at his arm. He could try. Again.

 

The lights were on when they got back to the house. Sherrinford ruffled his hair fondly while Mycroft gave him another warning look. _Stay clean. Don't embarrass Father_. And then the car was gone and Sherlock was alone in the porch.

 

He could hear people inside. Laughing. Socialising.

 

He didn’t want that. Couldn’t even if he wanted.

 

He opened the door, moved past his new housemates, and climbed up the stairs without a single look back.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's getting used to uni.

“It’s fine. I’m fine here.” Sherlock glared at the desk. It was too small—his lab equipment wasn’t going to fit here and his microscope hadn’t even been set up yet. Everything was too small. The room was less than half the size of his bedroom back home and the bed was just big enough for Sherlock’s toes not to dangle over the edge. Sherlock’s bedroom had an upright piano, a bookcase, and a king-sized bed in the middle of it all. This was comparable to a prison cell.

 

He pushed a dusty curtain aside and looked down. He had a view of the field. At least that was almost the same. His bedroom back home looked over a green patch of their lawn.

 

“Are you sure?” His father sounded worried. Sherlock looked at his watch. It wasn’t even seven in the morning. A bit insulting, really. “Do you get along well with the people there?”

 

“They’re asleep,” he lied. He could hear one of them in the kitchen. Two, he corrected himself when he heard another yell, followed by a stream of cursing. He’d cleaned the skull and left it to dry by the sink, which, now that he thought about it, was probably not the best thing to see in the morning. “Don’t you have class?”

 

“In a while, yes. Come by my office if you need something.”

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated.

 

“You’ll eat breakfast?”

 

“Yes.” Another lie.

 

“Good. I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Sherlock gave his things one last irritated look before he left the room. His father wouldn’t call—he would save Sherlock the embarrassment. But Sherlock kept his phone in his pocket. He had three missed calls from his mother and a text from DI Lestrade. It wasn’t important. ‘How are you? How’s your first day there?’ it read. Sherlock didn’t reply.

 

He wanted a murder to solve. That was out of the question. His father had talked to Lestrade to ban him from taking any cases for six months. His father said something along the lines about Sherlock needing to adjust to the school system and to meet new people. Sherlock couldn’t remember. He’d drowned his father out by shouting.

 

He wanted cocaine. Also not an option. Not even a cigarette.

 

 Something, anything that would distract him from this.

 

Redbeard could do that but…no, best not think about him. Sherlock was in uni now. Nobody here cared about his dead dog. Nobody care about anybody here.

 

“Do you mind?”

 

It was the blond boy, the one Sherrinford had immediately latched on to like the social leech he was. He had the skull in his hands. And he wore nothing but dark boxers and a somewhat peeved expression.

 

“Pranking? Bit not good.”

 

“It wasn’t a prank,” Sherlock muttered as he took the skull back. A client had given it to him and it was Sherlock’s most prized possession, aside from the Stradivarius he’d inherited from his grandfather. Sherlock was the only one who should touch the skull. He glared at the older boy who merely raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock could see Stamford in his peripheral vision, literally sitting at the edge of his seat. Sherlock turned his head to look at him. Half-naked as well.

 

Was that normal behavior? His brothers were always decently-dressed, even at home. And the boys in Sherlock’s former boarding school had been conservative. Extremely homophobic as well. Sherlock could still hear their taunts in the back of his mind.

 

Actually, he could still remember the pain that Peterson’s goodbye punch had given to his solar plexus. Sherlock had fought back. He’d punched him, scratched his face. Sherlock’s nails had blood underneath them by the time someone pulled them apart.

 

It was a bit unnerving and Sherlock was annoyed that he was affected by something as simple as nudity. Or near nudity in this case. He’d seen cadavers in all their glory.

 

He was just adjusting, maybe. This was new territory after all.

 

The blond boy looked at him, eyes narrowed. He was short but muscular like any other athlete and Sherlock was positive that no amount of the boxing classes he’d taken could help him win a fight with this boy. There was something else. It was his stance. He stood with his legs slightly apart, his back straight, chest out. Army stance. The influence of an army father, then.

 

No, Sherlock couldn’t fight him. Physically, at least.

 

“I’m John.” The boy’s eyes moved down his body then back up. He was thinking the same thing. Males did that; they sized each other up as soon as they saw each other. It was instinct.

 

Primal and a bit disgusting but it would save Sherlock from fights. If only he listened.

 

“Sherlock,” he replied. They shook hands. John’s left hand (dominant) was warm. His fingers had callouses on the sides. Guitar player. Sherlock swiped his thumb over a tan index finger. Knew how to play but didn’t play often. Hobby.

 

John was looking at him strangely. Right. You weren’t supposed to shake hands this long.

 

“Yeah…” John cleared his throat. Sherlock didn’t miss the way he tried to subtly wipe his hand on his thigh. Was his palm sweaty? “I heard a lot about you. Mike’s been telling me things.”

 

“Nothing embarrassing,” Mike teased. Sherlock frowned at that. He didn’t really talk to Mike. His father had gone to the same secondary school as Sherlock’s and Dr. Stamford made sure that Sherrinford was breathing normally, but that was about it. Sherlock left the socializing part to Sherrinford but his brother wasn’t here to comment on a football match or make another awful joke about his severe asthma. Sherlock was on his own and he didn’t know anything about what normal boys would be interested in.

 

He usually didn’t make any effort when talking to a stranger, but he couldn’t afford to get kicked out. _Play nice, Sherlock._

 

“Neil’s still asleep,” John explained when Sherlock opted to say nothing. He could play the dumb freshman card for a few weeks. “You’ll meet him later. Drink some coffee, though. You’ll need the energy to keep up with him.”

 

“I’m used to it.”

 

“Oh, yeah, your brother. The freckly one. Sherrinford?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He seems nice.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. That was the first thing people said when asked about their first impression of Sherrinford. Sherrinford was nice. Mycroft was polite. And Sherlock, well, Sherlock was odd.

 

Freak. Sometimes they said freak.

 

“You heading out already?” Mike looked incredulous. “Why’d you get a seven o’clock class?”

 

“I didn’t.” It wasn’t a lie. Sherlock was going out. There wasn’t a motive, either. He knew this place by heart already. His father had taken him here often enough when he was younger. Sherlock had spent most of his childhood sitting in the back of his father’s class, pulling secrets out of his students with just a glance.

 

Outside, everyone had someone to talk to, even the freshmen. They were paired with people their age. Sherlock was the odd one out since he was staying with upperclassmen. If he stayed inside, he’d have to talk to these people. Lengthy conversations led to fights and fights led to complaints and complaints led to Sherlock getting kicked out again. He was supposed to try because he couldn’t stay at home anymore. It was either uni or Sherrinford’s place and Sherlock wasn’t stupid enough to think that the second option was better.

 

Sherrinford wasn’t nice. He could guilt-trip you into doing unpleasant things.

 

“Come on, stay for a bit,” Mike insisted. “We can’t let you swim with the sharks just yet.”

 

“I really—”

 

“Please?” Mike was smiling. “There’s nothing to see out there just yet. Wait for an hour or two and you can head out. We can tell you about what places you should go to.” _And avoid_. It went unspoken but Sherlock got it.

 

Fine. Sherlock pulled out a chair and sat down. If this was what his brothers wanted, then Sherlock would try. He’d love to see the look on Mycroft’s face if he lasted until October.

 

* * *

 

 

The kid was annoying.

 

John listened to him and Mike talk while he cooked breakfast. Sherlock spoke tactlessly and he tended to become dismissive when the conversation turned to his family. There was something irritating about the way he spoke as well. It wasn’t the sound of his voice. Sherlock had a startlingly deep voice that John was sure could make wonders in the school choir. But he _drawled_. That was it. He drawled like some posh git who thought he knew everything. John dealt with enough posh gits in some of his classes. The Wilkeses and the Moriartys of the freshmen would get along well with this kid.

 

But he was also obviously, painfully innocent. It wasn’t just his newness. It was the way he looked when he thought no one was looking at him. Brows furrowed, hands closed into fists, the nervous way he kept looking from side-to-side. Like prey. Like someone was going to hit him.

 

John frowned. Kid like that could attract bullies like moths to a light.

 

“You eating?”

 

Sherlock looked at the omelette disdainfully. John’s eyes narrowed. The kid was thin as a stick. An eating disorder? He looked at Mike for confirmation but Mike looked just as lost as him. “I’m not hungry.” Sherlock looked at his watch. It was a Rolex, strapped tightly on a bony wrist. John felt a twinge of envy. He’d never be able to afford something like that. “I ought to get going.”

 

“Why? You’ve nowhere to go.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t know that.”

 

John was about to argue when Neil burst in, naked as the day he was born. John wasn’t fazed by it. Neil slept naked half the time and it was nothing John hadn’t seen before. “Food?” he grumbled, face still hazy with sleep. His whole face lit up when he saw Sherlock. “Oh, hey, new guy!”

 

Sherlock wasn’t looking. His hands, which were holding that stupid skull, shook slightly and he cringed when Neil moved close by. His face had turned red. Embarrassed? John couldn’t believe it.

 

“Christ, Neil, put something on, you’ll give him a heart attack,” John chided when Sherlock still wouldn’t look.

 

Neil looked down at his body. “Can’t see anything wrong with it.”

 

“Look in the mirror. Everything’s wrong with it.”

 

Neil didn’t cover himself and Sherlock left after three minutes, his face still slightly red as Mike bid him goodbye. “What a cutie pie,” Neil sang once Sherlock was safely out of earshot. “Not my type but he’s adorable, Mike. It’s like looking after a six-year-old in footed pajamas.”

 

“Pedo.”

 

“He’s eighteen,” Neil argued. “And cute. You have to admit it, John. The kid’s a looker.”

 

John didn’t admit it out loud. But he supposed that yes, Sherlock was attractive enough. Up close he looked less like his father than John had thought. His features were softer in spite of the seemingly permanent sharp scowl he wore, and he had the ponciest hair John had ever seen. Dark brown and curly and it bloody _bounced_ when he moved.

 

The eyes freaked him out, though. Sherlock had the strangest eye color John had ever seen on a human being. It changed color, like cat’s eyes.

 

“He’s gay,” Neil insisted. John looked to Mike for confirmation. He shrugged.

 

“Asexual.”

 

“Gay,” Neil argued. His smile was full of plans and Irene Adler and no. John shook his head.

 

“No. You are not dragging my teacher’s kid to the Queer Club. No.”

 

The Queer Club was Neil’s favorite thing in the whole world. “Apart from cock,” Neil had joked, making both John and Mike nearly choke on their drinks. Irene Adler, a Music major, ruled it with a rainbow-colored iron fist, especially during the week before she threw a party. That was when the streets were lined with members of the LGBT community dressed in their colors, and it was when the statue of Marius H. Dudley, the school’s founder, was made to wear a rainbow-colored flag. She ran in the same crowd as John, but John never felt comfortable being in Irene’s presence. The girl was intimidating. She’d freak the poor kid out.

 

“Murray’s throwing a party later, by the way,” Mike said when they were walking to class. Neil had already bid them goodbye outside the med students’ building. He was an Advertising major. John didn’t care much about Advertising but Neil seemed to be good at it, if inviting people to come to parties could be taken as a sign of good advertising.

 

“Can’t go. I have a date with Mary.”

 

“Can’t you guys just date at the party?”

 

John shook his head. “Nah. That would be like nothing changed.”

 

And she wouldn’t approve anyway. She was right, though. John had to take it easy on the drinking. He didn’t want to add to his mother’s worries. Harry was bad enough.

 

Mary didn’t have many classes similar to John’s. She was picky with professors. John just joined what class had an available slot. So it wasn’t until John walked in Biochemistry did he see her.

 

She was talking to Janine, the two of them talking with their heads bent low over a phone. “Who are you flirting with now?” John asked as he grabbed the seat beside Mary. He looked at the texts and was unsurprised to find that most of them deserved an R rating. “Boy or girl?”

 

“Girl.” Janine winked at him before snatching the phone out of his hands. Janine had a hobby of picking a number from the student directory. It was like Tinder, only far more seedy and far more, well, Janine. If it wasn’t risky, it wasn’t worth it. John had to admit that it seemed like fun.

 

“They were talking about Plaster of Paris dildos,” Mary muttered once Janine faded back to Text World. She rolled her eyes at him. John quirked a smile which Mary copied. She had a nice smile. It was always subtle when she smiled at John, like they were sharing a private joke, and as John looked at her, he felt his heart skip a beat.

 

I should kiss her, he thought. He leaned in and did just that.

 

“Look, Sebastian, boring people doing boring things.” Jim Moriarty flashed him a smile that was too-white, too wide, and downright sinister. He wore his usual expensive black suit and John couldn’t help but feel shabby and unappealing in his presence.

 

_That’s what he wants you to think._

 

John glared at him. He felt Mary’s hand grip his upper arm, warning him. Moriarty wasn’t worth it. And even if John did pummel the wanker to death, there was a 99.9% chance John would be assassinated on the spot. The guy probably had bodyguards watching his every move.

 

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Sebastian didn’t talk much. He was on John’s rugby team, but John doubted that his refusal to partake in Moriarty’s taunting of John had anything to do with Moran respecting his position as captain. He glanced at John then sat at the back of the row, Moriarty following.

 

“Holmes should really kick them out,” Mary said. She tucked a strand of her blond hair beneath her ear, looked over her shoulder, and then shot another glare at Moriarty. The bastard just smiled back. “They don’t even need this class.”

 

It was true. Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were Politics and Economics majors. They were a year younger than John but that didn’t stop them from creeping out the upperclassmen. If Moriarty found something interesting, he’d take it, and Sebastian would follow without a moment of doubt.

 

Moriarty picked on John often. ‘Charity case’ was what he called John and other scholarship students. “Peasant,” he’d said once and John had nearly tackled him to the ground and beat him bloody.  

 

John got it, okay. He came from a poor family. He wore hand-me-downs and he was more than familiar with the shame of having to borrow money from his mates. But Moriarty didn’t have to rub his stupid Westwood all over John’s face because John knew and accepted that he came from a poor, broken family. At least he was smart enough to get that scholarship.

 

He worked for it. All Moriarty had to do was tell Daddy to pay his way.

 

“I’ll punch him one day,” John told Mary. His hands were clenched into fists when Professor Holmes walked in. He raised an eyebrow at John but thankfully left it alone.

 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Mary teased and John snorted at that. Really, Moriarty could sneeze in front of him and John would deck the guy on the spot. Mary held him back though. Mary was the constant reminder for John to be good, to drink less, to gamble less. He had a scholarship to keep and there was no way John would go back home earlier than expected.

 

* * *

 

 

The girl sitting beside him in his Social Sciences would not stop looking at him. Sherlock kept his eyes glued on his textbook. He could see her glancing at him every now and then through his peripheral vision. It was unnerving. She was obviously a freshman as well. They dressed differently, like they were trying too hard to impress the upperclassmen. The clothes and bags were too new and they had a tendency to look at one person for too long in a desperate attempt to make eye contact. Sherlock didn’t look like one.

 

“You dress differently,” the naked boy had said. “Like you’re a professor.”

 

Sherlock wore what he always wore: a black suit with a plain shirt beneath. It wasn’t odd. There were more outrageously-dressed people here, like the boy in front of him who wore elf ears or the girl in the back row who’d come in wearing a jacket with a hood that looked like a cartoon dragon. Sherlock had even spotted a student dressed in a costume from some popular sci-fi movie. Sherlock wasn’t sure what it was. He’d probably deleted it.

 

Pop-culture was a waste of space in his mind palace.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Professor Lewondowsky’s smile was one of delighted surprise. Sherlock plastered a fake one on his face. People were looking. Sherlock glared at them.

 

Professor Lewondowsky was, embarrassingly, Sherlock’s godfather. It was inevitable. His father worked here for too long so there was always a professor who was a godparent of him, Mycroft, or Sherrinford. Lewondowsky was a cheerful person who was far too talkative for Sherlock’s taste. Sherlock kept his mouth shut, though. The man gave the best presents.

 

When he fixed his eyes on Sherlock, he already knew what he was going to say. “Since this is a Social Sciences class, we might as well start by introducing ourselves to each other. Start with the people sitting closest to you and spread out. I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

 

“I’m Molly. Molly Hooper.” She had a mouthful of braces. Sherlock shook her offered hand lightly. There was cat hair on her jumper. Sherlock glanced at the notebook that sat in front of her. She’d taken notes of the earlier lecture. The i’s were dotted with hearts and the margins of her notebook were filled with doodles of cats and flowers.

 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Hey, are you related to Siger Holmes?” Her smile brightened when he nodded. “I just had his class. He’s amazing!”

 

Sherlock didn’t know about that. He thought his father’s classes were boring. He did more exciting things at home, especially when he let Sherlock help him in his experiments. Sherlock’s childhood had been spent in the basement where his father had set up a lab, mixing chemicals while his brothers hung out with their friends. Or connections as Mycroft liked to call his.

 

“They can’t all be geniuses like you, Sherlock,” Siger had explained when Sherlock asked why he removed some details from his explanations in his class lectures. Sherlock was eight when he first asked that but he could already tell that there was something different about the way his father talked to his students. “You have to level with them.”

 

Sherlock, of course, thought it was stupid. He thought it was stupid then, and his opinion had not changed at all. If you were smart, you were smart. It wasn’t his fault the rest of the world couldn’t keep up with him.

 

Molly invited him for coffee after class. Sherlock didn’t bother refusing. Her treat, she said, and Sherlock was hungry. He’d barely eaten his dinner when he ate with his brothers and he’d eaten absolutely nothing before that.  Besides, Molly was studying Pre-Mortuary Science. She had access to the mortuary and Sherlock was dying to get his hands on a body part to experiment on. And she seemed interested in Sherlock. She could be useful one day.

 

The coffee shop she’d discovered was on the edge of campus, near the Fine Arts building. A wall of cigarette smoke hit them when they opened the door. Sherlock’s mouth watered at the smell. Sherrinford would collapse if he walked in here. The smoke was thick enough to make his eyes water.

 

Inside, it was dimly lit. There were glow-in-the-dark paintings of cartoon monsters on the back wall and newspapers folded into paper airplanes hanging from the ceiling. Nearly everyone inside was tattooed and pierced. Sherlock gulped when he saw the familiar exchanging of drugs under the table. One of them got up from the table and went to the bathroom.

 

He’d snort it, Sherlock thought. He carried nothing with him except for the bag. Sherlock preferred needles. Snorting disrupted his sense of smell and he needed that to solve cases. It wasn’t as vital as his sense of sight, but it helped.

 

“My brother went here,” Molly explained, unaware that Sherlock’s attention had drifted elsewhere, “so I sort of know where the cool places are.”

 

“This doesn’t seem like the type of place you’d frequent,” Sherlock observed. Molly was paisley-prints and knitted jumpers and small, furry animals. This place was a punk’s paradise.

 

Wrong information. Sherlock scowled. He hated it when he missed things.

 

Molly smirked at that. “Brother, remember?”

 

Molly talked. She talked a lot about her family but Sherlock didn’t care about the details. He sat there and stared past her, at the students hanging about. There was a girl who’d slept with her friend’s boyfriend, a student who had an affair with a professor, another who was worrying about student loans. He could see marks from one-night stands on their skins.

 

Sex. Why were teenagers so obsessed with it?

 

“Hey, look,” Molly said suddenly. She grinned. “There’s a cute dog outside.”

 

It was a German Shepherd. Sherlock sat up. He couldn’t help it.

 

Sherlock was a dog person. Everyone thought otherwise. Everyone thought he liked cats because cats were independent and quiet and Sherlock seemed like the type of person who’d prefer a pet that didn’t need much looking after. Sherlock wasn’t into cats. _Mycroft_ liked cats. Besides, they scratched too much and all they did was laze about. Cats bored him. Dogs, though. Dogs were different.

 

Redbeard had been an Irish Setter. A woman had given the puppy to him as a reward for solving his first case with Lestrade. To say that Sherlock had fallen in love was a severe understatement.

 

“You love that dog more than me,” Sherrinford often said in mock-hurt.

 

“You treat that dog too much like a person,” was what Mycroft told him.

 

That was three years ago. Two weeks after Sherlock entered rehab, Redbeard was diagnosed with cancer. Sherlock never got to see him alive.

 

The dog barked happily as his owner approached him. It was a student. A Fine Arts major, Sherlock deduced. The cuffs of his jumper were dotted with paint and he wore the uniform of people in his course (black jumper, black-framed glasses, a pierced ear, Vans). He patted the dog’s head then looked up, his eyes immediately finding Sherlock’s.

 

Miracle of miracles, he smiled.

 

Strangers didn’t smile at Sherlock. It was because of his eyes. They were deemed frightening and it wasn’t just because of their color. It was the intensity of his gaze. “Like you’re shredding us,” one of Sherlock’s old roommates had said.

 

Sherlock looked at Molly. She was texting, her attention already away from the boy. Sherlock looked back.

 

He smiled back.

 

* * *

 

‘ _Would you disapprove if I had a one-night stand?_ – _SH’_

 

‘I’ll kill someone. Who is it? Sherlock no please no no no no don’t. Please tell me you won't.’

 

‘ _It’s supposed to be a joke. -SH_ ’

 

‘Don’t joke about things like that. You’ll make me cry. You’re my baby. I can’t let you go just yet.’

_‘You’re disgustingly sentimental. –SH’_

 

_‘What’s Mycroft doing? Eating cake again? He’s getting fatter. –SH’_

‘Mycroft’s at work. Government work, you know? They sent him to Berlin.’

 

_‘Oh.’_

 

‘ _You?’_

‘I'm in Dubai, Sherls. I'll be here for a while. I’m really sorry. You’re not going to see either of us this weekend.’

 

'I'm sorry.'

 

'Are you mad at me?'

 

'Sherls?' 

 

‘Are you coming home?’

 

‘Sherlock?’

 

_‘No. I’m busy.’_

 

 


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much sad gay baby sherlock in this chapter.

A week later Sherlock saw the dog again.

 

Or rather, the dog saw Sherlock again. It bounded up to him, tongue out as it put its front paws on Sherlock’s lower back. He stumbled slightly. The books he was holding fell to the ground. One landed in a muddy puddle. Sherlock sighed. They were books stolen from the graduate students’ section of the school library. Sherlock had been thinking about giving them back (he’d have no use of them once he finished reading) but it was clear he couldn’t do so now. He shot a glare at the dog who barked at him then stopped, ears twitching when he caught sight of his owner.

 

“Oi! Rem, come back here!”

 

Up close, Sherlock realized that the boy was older than he’d thought. Closer to John’s age, maybe around twenty or twenty-one. Skinny, grey eyes, pale enough to match Sherlock’s own too-white skin. His blond hair was light enough to appear white. The wind pushed it back giving him the appearance of a dandelion ready to keel over. “Koby’s, right?” he said once he’d caught the dog.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Koby’s,” he repeated. He bent to attach the leash to his dog’s collar, then, without looking up, added, “The coffee shop. I saw you there.”

 

“Oh.” He meant the smoke-filled establishment that sold bad food but great coffee. Sherlock nodded. He hadn’t gone back there since Molly Hooper decided that the coffee shop was a bit too noisy for proper conversation. Sherlock had been invited several times to join Molly and a group of her friends to dinner. He declined. Always.

 

“I’m Victor Trevor.” He picked up Sherlock’s books and gave them back with an offered hand. Sherlock shook Victor’s hand tightly. His fingers were stained with charcoal and nicotine and there was a dark smudge of paint on his thumb.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock No Last Name?”

 

He was taller than Sherlock by three inches and the disproportion to their eye levels unnerved him in some way. Few people were taller than him. Sherrinford and Mycroft were taller than him but they were his older brothers and them being taller was a bit acceptable. Victor looked friendly enough, though. He stared at Sherlock, waiting.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he finally said.

 

Sherlock recognized the moment Victor realized he was Siger Holmes’ kid. It was always there whenever Sherlock was forced to introduce himself. But to his surprise, Victor didn’t ask him for confirmation. It was stupid thing to ask, anyway. People could tell just by looking at him and his father.

 

“Rembrandt seems to like you,” Victor said. He patted the dog’s head fondly. “Why’s that?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. Victor was smiling at him, his eyes filled with amusement and with a tinge of curiosity. There was a cut on his chin, on its way to healing. An accident? He looked at Victor’s shoes. They were the same pair of ragged white Vans he’d seen him wearing last week. Skateboarding accident?

 

“You’re a freshman, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Cool.”

 

That made Sherlock frown. The upperclassmen always made fun of the freshmen. They were always looking as well, like they were waiting for the freshmen to do something stupid. Which, being new, was often. They didn’t make fun of Sherlock, though. Sherlock had the advantage of being familiar with the campus’s layout and he could deduce his way through things he didn’t know already. But they watched and they waited.

 

Rembrandt whined and began to tug on his leash. Victor sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around, Sherlock.” He shook Sherlock’s hand again and then left, Rembrandt practically dragging him forward. Sherlock looked down at his hand. There were charcoal stains on it.

 

* * *

 

 

“It was a dancing dolphin, Sherls! A DANCING DOLHPIN!”

 

“Sometimes your weakness for cheap entertainment makes me question your intelligence,” Sherlock drawled as he stepped in the house. The only person in the living room was John. He was noisily tapping away on his laptop. It was a cheap model. Hand-me-down, given to him by an older cousin. Sherlock thought it was useless and was more than half-tempted to throw it in the bin whenever John left it in the kitchen. Not a good thing to say, though. John nodded at him then resumed his typing.

 

Banging. It was more like he was banging the keys with a sledgehammer.

 

“Says the boy who silently screams in delight whenever he sees a dog do a sommersault,” Sherrinford teased.

 

“I’ve never seen a dog do a sommersault.” Sherlock saw John glance at him.

 

“That’s what Youtube is for.” Sherrinford sounded happy. Manic happy, the kind of happy that made people question if there was something wrong with him. Mentally, there wasn’t. In their family, it was plain strange. An extrovert among introverts. It was like raising a wolf among sheep. “You should come with me on my next trip.”

 

“I’m not interested in going to Singapore again.”

 

“I’m going to Thailand actually.”

 

“Same thing. Mathematicians don’t have to travel so much. Why do you?”

 

“Because I’m the boss and I do whatever I want.”

 

“Spoiled.”

 

“True. You should come home. How long have you been there? Two weeks? Also, I, uh, want you to meet someone. This girl I’m dating.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Sherrinford did that. He dated a girl and if they got to more than three days, Sherrinford would insist that Sherlock and Mycroft meet her. Five dates later, Sherrinford would get bored. He’d move on and after a week or two there would be a new girl for him to show around.

 

Sherlock hadn’t liked the last one. But then Sherlock didn’t like any of the girls Sherrinford dated. The last one he’d met was four months ago and she’d slapped Sherlock when he blurted out that the girl was only interested in bedding his brother. Sherrinford had laughed while Mycroft had removed the girl from Sherlock’s presence. The night ended with Sherrinford breaking up with his date. The morning after, he literally couldn’t remember her name.

 

“Her name’s Audrey,” Sherrinford said. “She works in theater. Mummy loves her. She’s finally got someone to sing with her.”

 

“She’s met Mummy already?” That was new. And odd. Usually, Sherlock and Mycroft met Sherrinford’s girlfriends first. Usually.

 

“Yeah. So come home this weekend. Please?”

 

It was the please that did it. If Sherrinford said please, he wouldn’t stop texting Sherlock which would lead to Sherlock texting Mycroft to control Sherrinford, which would lead to Sherlock saying please to Mycroft. Which was unacceptable. “Fine, just don’t show me any videos of dancing dolphins,” Sherlock muttered. He moved the phone away from his ear but even that far away he could hear his brother’s happy yells of success.

 

“Dancing dolphins?” John asked.

 

“It’s rude to eavesdrop,” Sherlock said.

 

“Yes, well, it’s rude to put body parts in the fridge as well.” John sounded a bit peeved but he sounded amused as well, like Sherlock had played a prank on him. Pranks. Sherlock didn’t do pranks. “Where'd you get those?”

 

“Stole them.” It wasn’t a lie. Sherlock had sneaked in the hospital where the med students practiced and had talked a student into giving them to him. So it wasn’t really stealing in a way. Sherlock looked at John, wondering if he would tell, but as expected John merely pursed his lips and said nothing.

 

He’d been here two weeks and of his three housemates, it was John he had the most information of. Or John was the most interesting of the three which prompted Sherlock to deduce more about him.

 

He was a scholarship student and that was something you had to deduce because no one talked about money unless you were that annoying kid from his class, Sebastian Wilkes. His clothes were threadbare hand-me-downs that never fit him right and when he looked at Sherlock’s things (his laptop, his watch, his shoes), John always wore that slightly envious, slightly disbelieving expression common to scholarship kids. He grew up in Scotland or his parents were Scottish. When he was angry the accent slipped under his tongue. Sherlock had once come down for breakfast to hear John arguing with someone on the phone. A sibling. Brother, no, wait. Sister. John had mentioned a sister once.

 

Sherlock could read John’s faults easily. He had a gambling problem that John was doing his best to be rid off. When he and Mike were together, Sherlock saw the bulge of John’s wallet in Mike’s coat pocket. He turned to drink when upset and felt guilty when he gave in to the urge. There was an alcoholic in his family. The sister maybe. Or his mother. Not the father, though. John had some military traits he’d no doubt inherited from his father, and he wouldn’t keep them if his father was the abusive drunk in his family.

 

He still seemed annoyed about having a freshman with them but Sherlock guessed that it was more because of the idea than because of Sherlock. Mike treated him like a patient who needed to be looked after, Nick or Nate treated him like an old friend (he was a bit like Sherrinford and having his brother’s personality in another person made Sherlock wonder if his brother came off as annoying to other people). John treated him like…well, like Sherlock was someone in the same level as him. No one ever treated him like that. Not Mycroft who always had to insist that he was smarter. Not Sherrinford who treated him like a small child. And definitely not any of his old classmates.

 

John treated him like he was normal.

 

It fascinated Sherlock to no end.

 

Of course, John was probably only nice to Sherlock because his father taught in his class. Still. It was nice to be treated differently for once.

 

“My father will focus more on essay type quizzes,” Sherlock said. The typing stopped. John looked at him, brows furrowed.

 

“What?”

 

“In Biochemistry. He teaches too many classes so he likes to jumble things in order not to settle into a pattern. If he gave your class last year exams that required memorization, this year he’ll want to test you on what you can gather from that information. He prefers essays anyway. It’s the only way he’ll know if you really understand.”

 

“How’d you know that I have an exam tomorrow?”

 

“You have far too many reading materials sitting beside you and I can recognize my father’s handwriting on one of your assignments. What did he write?”

 

John pulled out the paper and held it up. Siger had written ‘Good Job!’ on it and had decorated the top with stars, the way a kindergarten teacher would. Sherlock snorted. “I came home with a stamp of a star on my right hand,” John said, making Sherlock grin. “Your father’s a riot.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“What was growing up with him like?”

 

Fun. Sherlock’s childhood were experiments in the basement, playing pirates by the lake, and sweets pilfered from his grandmother’s pantry. It was his father teaching him to play the violin, his mother letting him read books from Oxford’s library in spite of the librarian’s protests that he was too young. It was pelting Mycroft with snowballs and Sherrinford grabbing his hands and spinning him around and around in a parody of a proper waltz.

 

And then he went to school and someone called him Freak and then it wasn’t fun anymore.

 

“It was okay. Father was attentive.”

 

“He’s not like you, though.” John leaned back. “You’re a bit more reserved. You’re more like your brother. Not the freckly one. The other one. What’s his name?”

 

“Mycroft.” It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated it when people compared him to Mycroft. It wasn’t that he despised his older brother. Sherlock didn’t hate him. It was all for show because neither of them were affectionate and the very thought of putting an arm around his brother’s shoulders made Sherlock gag. But he wasn’t Mycroft.

 

It was a bit hard to have your own identity when you were the youngest.

 

“Yeah. Him.” John grinned at him. “Is he just as annoying as you?”

 

“More.”

 

John laughed at that. “It must be hell in your house.”

 

Sherlock bristled. “What do you mean?” Someone had said the same line once. The House of Freaks. He was six and young enough to still be affected by the words. He’d come home crying and the next day Sherrinford’s knuckles were bleeding while Mycroft sat in the sitting room, phone pressed to one ear as he talked in a low voice. The boy was expelled a week later.

 

“Well. Three boys, one of whom is a happy-go-lucky social god. Another who seems like a baby Winston Churchill. And then there’s you.”

 

Sherlock looked at him.

 

“A bit annoying, a bit unsanitary for leaving those fingers in the fridge. Don’t do that again, by the way. And—”

 

“ _And_?”

 

Sherlock sat, waiting. John had resumed his typing but he looked up and smiled a little when he added, “And awfully clever, as well.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He saw Victor again on Friday. There was a skateboard tucked under his arm and when he saw Sherlock he called his name and waved.

 

“Friend of yours?” his father asked and Sherlock shrugged.

 

He almost said yes.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment he stepped out of the car, Sherlock was enveloped in warm arms. The scent of powder invaded his nostrils and there was a stupidly sharp diamond-encrusted necklace digging into his collarbone. “Mummy,” he greeted, grudgingly accepting a kiss on his cheek. He could hear Sherrinford laughing in the background.

 

“How have you been? You’re skinnier than I remember! Have you been eating?” She grabbed his shoulders, turned him this way and that. Sherlock let her. He caught Mycroft’s amused glance. “Piss off” he mouthed.

 

Violet Holmes narrowed his eyes at him and Sherlock stood straight, bracing himself for the onslaught. He could see his mother reading facts from his clothes, from the hunch of his shoulders (he’d not been sleeping well). This was why he didn’t like to be in Mummy’s presence. It was never fun to have the deducing done to him.

 

“She’s special,” Sherlock said once Mummy let him go. He walked beside Mycroft. There were bags under his eyes and his shirt buttons seemed to be straining over his stomach. What he did in the government was not something Sherlock was interested in, but Mycroft seemed to be enjoying it. Mycroft enjoyed feeling stressed. It made him feel important.

 

Sherrinford was animatedly talking to their parents, both of them laughing as his brother cracked another joke. “This is the first time all of us are in the estate to meet a girl,” Sherlock continued.

 

It was true. Unless it was the holidays, it was rare for all of them to be in the estate. Sometimes Sherlock would be there with Mycroft while Sherrinford was in god-knew-where. Sometimes his parents were there with Sherrinford while Sherlock hung out in New Scotland Yard with Mycroft nearby, keeping a close eye on him. Often, there was no one there at all, save for the caretakers.

 

There was a woman up ahead. Sherlock stopped when he saw her. She was tall and willowy with dark brown hair that hung past her shoulders. She was talking to one of the gardeners but when she spotted them, she stopped and waved. Sherrinford waved back and he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. He grinned. ‘Well?’ his eyes seemed to ask.

 

“I think Sherrinford might be in love,” Mycroft said. Sherlock felt his gut tighten with dread.

 

* * *

 

 

Audrey was nice. Audrey was beautiful. She was perfect, in Sherrinford’s standards. Tall, smart, funny but not in the corny way Sherrinford’s humor ran. And talented. Sherrinford was big on talent. It was Mummy’s fault for raising them to become skilled with an instrument. If Sherrinford heard someone playing or singing beautifully, he would come up to them and talk.

 

She worked in broadway and Sherlock listened to Audrey and his mother sing ‘Memory’ while Mycroft played the piano. Her voice was high and lilting, like a bird’s, and when she talked it was soft and gentle, like she was afraid that she’d frighten Sherlock if she spoke any louder.

 

Sherlock hated her.

 

“You can join them,” his father spoke. He had two cups of tea with him, one of which he handed to Sherlock. They were in the balcony. The doors leading to the music room were made of glass and Sherlock could see them from where he sat. Mycroft and Sherrinford were talking. Sherlock knew better than to intrude. They did that sometimes. They excluded Sherlock from a conversation because he was too young and they thought that he might not understand (even though Sherlock could understand perfectly). It wasn’t his fault Mycroft was ten years older than him, and Sherrinford twelve.

 

It made him feel young and naïve and Sherlock hated it more than he hated perfect Audrey.

 

“I found your violin again, by the way.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  He looked at Siger who smiled at him.

 

“I had Mycroft look for it,” Siger continued. “They found it in a music shop in Surrey. I had it repaired. You’ll be able to take it to uni.”

 

Sherlock nodded. It was hard to breathe all of a sudden and his throat was itching. Sherlock swallowed hard and drank his tea.

 

He’d sold the violin before he went to rehab. It was an inheritance, given to him by his grandfather when it was clear that of the three boys it was Sherlock who could play the violin best. He’d sold it for cocaine and Sherlock had cried after he was sober.

 

Sherlock had loved that thing. And he’d sold it for a hit.

 

Because he was stupid and he was weak and he didn’t deserve to get it back. He didn’t deserve it.

 

“You can keep it, Sherlock, it’s no big deal.” But his father had gotten a hold of him. Sherlock watched his thumb move over one of his track marks, gently, carefully, like Sherlock was on the edge of breaking.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have the strangest eyes.” Sherlock looked down and watched as his eyes were drawn on the page. “I can’t quite get their color.”

 

They were sitting in one of the stone benches near Bentley Hall. The sunlight was hitting Victor in a way that it made him appear paler than he really was. Like a smudge of white. He had his skateboard under one foot and he kept pushing it back and forth as he continued sketching the outline of Sherlock’s face.

 

Sherlock kept running into Victor, like that first not-quite meeting in the coffee shop had been an on-switch to them seeing each other on their way to classes. Often, Victor stopped him. He would talk about nothing in particular, his hands moving as he jumped from one conversation to the other. It was oddly reminiscent of Sherrinford. Sherlock usually came to class late. His Biology professor had even called him forward to discuss it.

 

Mycroft’s godmother, a close friend of his father. “Is something wrong, Sherlock?” she’d asked and Sherlock had reddened slightly under the curious looks of the people in his class.

 

There was nothing wrong. Sherlock was just very aware of Victor Trevor’s presence.

 

It wasn’t like Sherlock had never been infatuated with anyone before. There was a boy in his old boarding school that Sherlock had found extremely attractive. He was blond and blue-eyed and when he smiled it was with a set of perfect white teeth. Sherlock had hated himself for liking the boy because it was just predictable to have a crush on him. Good-looking, smart, more than a bit of a twat. Sherlock was lucky he’d never been stupid enough to try and make a move because that would have ended with Sherlock’s head down a toilet. He’d blamed it on hormones, on puberty, because that was the stage when he either felt like hitting someone or snogging the warm-bodied life form nearest to him.

 

With Victor it was quieter. It just made Sherlock hypersensitive whenever Victor was near. It made him aware of Victor’s nape which smelled strongly of soap, or of the way Victor’s too-pale hair fell over his eyes when he nodded. It had him agreeing to let Victor slap some headphones over his head and Sherlock would find himself listening to a song that was too much bass, too much purple poetry to ever find its way to Sherlock’s music library.

 

But he listened. He listened.

 

“So what are they?” Victor turned to him. Always with a smile. It made Sherlock’s gut tighten in want. And shame. There was always shame. If Mycroft could see him right now, he’d laugh and tell him he was wasting his time.

 

“Your eyes. What color are they?”

 

“Blue.” That was what his records said, anyway. Hardly anyone agreed. He had the same eye color as his mother. When he was younger he’d wished he’d gotten the same dark brown eye color as his brothers because no one ever asked why their eyes were that color. Genetics was never a good answer, unless you wished you got a punch to mouth for being a know-it-all. ‘Storm’ was Sherrinford’s nickname for him when he was younger. When he cried, Sherrinford claimed that his eyes turned dark grey.

 

Sherlock had once made himself cry in front of a mirror to see if this was true. It wasn’t.

 

“I don’t think so. They’re green right now.” Victor touched his face, his chin to be more specific. He gently tilted Sherlock’s face up. Sherlock wasn’t sure if Victor was flirting or if he was just checking the way the shadows fell on Sherlock’s face. He could read Victor easily (only child, introvert, cat person, neat-freak, caffeine addict) but when it came to feelings, Sherlock was absolutely crap.

 

It had only been a month anyway. He ought not to jump into conclusions.

 

It was a relief to be back to uni. He’d hated every moment Audrey was with them and she’d been there all week. Sherrinford had met her in London, and because he was Sherrinford, had immediately asked her to dinner. She’d declined. That was what got Sherrinford hooked. No one refused Sherrinford because even though he wasn’t conventionally handsome (his freckles looked strange and his eyes were too small), he had a legendary charm that could lead any woman to his bed.

 

Sherlock didn’t understand why he disliked her so much. But everyone noticed, except for Sherrinford himself. Even Audrey noticed that Sherlock glared more than smiled at her. Sherrinford had invited him over again. “Have dinner with me and Audrey,” he’d said. “Mycroft’s coming, too.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t gone back there in two weeks. Instead, he spent most of his time with Victor. Victor would be there, taking Rembrandt out for a walk. He lived on the edge of campus, in the teachers’ village where most of the older students lived. He’d invited Sherlock over once. Sherlock had declined, his heart pounding the whole time.

 

 

He wanted to talk to Sherrinford about it. Talking to Mycroft was out because Mycroft would mock him, and Sherlock would rather kill himself than talk to his parents about it. Molly Hooper was not an option. Not Mike who might tell his father and definitely not Neil who would probably just tell him to have sex with Victor. Not John because John might treat him like he was a normal person, but Sherlock didn’t know him well enough. He didn’t want any of his housemates to know him well enough.

 

That was Sherrinford’s job and often, Sherlock never had to ask because Sherrinford was always one step ahead.

 

Sherrinford always noticed when it came to Sherlock’s wellbeing. And he didn’t now.

 

Maybe that was why he hated Audrey so much.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock looked at the page. “What do you think?” Victor asked.

 

It was a good drawing of Sherlock. Sketchy, the lines overlapping too much, but it was him. Strange, mad Sherlock. He blinked.

 

“Beautiful,” he said and watched as Victor’s laughed in delight.

 

“Hey.”

 

Sherlock looked at him.

 

“It’s Irene’s birthday this Saturday. You know her?”

 

“The music student?” Sherlock knew a little about Irene Adler. It was impossible not to. She was possibly the most talked about person in campus. Her sexual escapades were apparently legendary.

 

“Yeah, her. You want to go?”

 

Sherlock paused. It would be a big party and big parties usually had drugs and Sherlock would be so tempted. He’d be so, so tempted to go back. But Victor was grinning at him and he looked so hopeful.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

 

“Good. You’re my date, then.”

 

Sherlock blinked and Victor laughed and winked at him.

 

Yes, he thought. Definitely yes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene's party is next and John definitely doesn't approve when he sees Sherlock with Victor.


End file.
